


Routine Maintenance

by redredribbons



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Megatron/Tarn, M/M, Medical Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sticky Sex, Submissive Tarn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/pseuds/redredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarn’s transformation sequence is a bit off even after a T-cog transplant, and Pharma discovers that the Decepticon hasn’t been taking as good care of himself as he should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine Maintenance

Pharma crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the hulking tank seated calmly on his operating table. He didn’t like for Tarn to linger in the infirmary once the T-cog transplant was complete-- the room felt dimmer and colder while he remained there, as if light itself recoiled from his presence. Tarn seemed even more intimidating here than in the bowels of his own headquarters; here he was an intruder, all crushing, pitted dark plating against the smooth, sterile spotlessness of the infirmary. 

“Transplant’s complete for this month,” Pharma said dismissively as turned away to re-spooled leftover solder, “Now get out.”

Silence. That was odd. Normally Tarn would leave him with the parting gift of a velvety, spark-wrenching chuckle or a sweetly poetic parting hum, a silver knife to the very core of his being. Slowly, Pharma turned around. His entire frame jolted in alarm at the site of Tarn’s mask suddenly very, very close to his own faceplates. He swore loudly as the spool in his hand dropped to the ground. Instinctively he backed away from those smoldering red optics; one foot landed on the edge of the spool and Pharma swore again, louder, as he nearly lost his balance. Through the holes of the mask, he could see the corners of Tarn’s optics crinkling with mirth. 

“Such a jumpy little thing,” the Decepticon chortled. 

“Why are you still here?” Pharma sighed, thoroughly put-upon. 

“I have additional need of your medical expertise,” Tarn stated matter-of-factly.

“I don’t care. Our agreement is for one monthly T-cog transplant and that’s it.”

“Then consider the agreement... revised,” Tarn purred. He trapped Pharma with a large hand splayed over his lower back. The jet froze, unable to escape that deceptively gentle touch without pressing closer to Tarn’s frame. 

“You can’t do that,” Pharma said petulantly.

Tarn cocked his head and rubbed his fingertips against Pharma’s plating. “Oh, but I can. I’m already inside your precious little Autobot settlement. I could kill every mech here without firing so much as a single shot. But you already know that... which is why you so generously offered your services to me in the first place. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

Pharma gave a strangled, defeated whine and lifted his hands to Tarn’s chest as if to push him away. His shoulders slumped though, realizing the futility of such an action, and simply rested his palms against the rough purple plating, one on each side of the Decepticon insignia. 

“Fine. Fine. What do you want?” Pharma snapped, not quite making optic contact.

“Ah, I knew you’d see reason. You are an intelligent mech, after all,” Tarn said, “It’s my transformation sequence, you see...”

“Why am I not surprised,” Pharma sneered. 

Tarn ignored the snide remark and continued, “It’s just not as... smooth as it ought to be. Something catches.”

“Is that so,” Pharma said, not even trying to feign interest, “Do go on.”

“Something... here,” Tarn said. He wrapped a hand around one of Pharma’s and slid it down his chest, lower, until the medic’s fingers rested in the juncture between his hips and abdominal plating. 

Jet engines stuttered at the contact, quite against Pharma’s will, and he narrowed his optics. Was this another of Tarn’s attempts to lure him into the berth? Those overtures had previously been reserved for Pharma’s visits to the DJD headquarters and were usually unsuccessful. Usually. 

The reaction was not lost on Tarn, who grinned behind his mask and lowered his voice to a husky whisper, “Sorry to disappoint, Doctor-- but maybe later, if you perform well.”

Pharma grit his teeth and bit down a quiet moan as the words wrapped around his spark like a warm blanket. 

“Just get back on the damn table,” he ground out. 

“As you command,” Tarn chuckled, and arranged himself once more on the almost-too-small operating table. 

“Probably something caught in your wiring...” Pharma muttered, reaching for a pair of pliers. Given Tarn’s line of work, he didn’t even want to think about what that “something” might be. 

Without warning Pharma shoved the pliers into the small gap between armor plates and began to prod around rather roughly. Tarn hissed softly in discomfort and involuntarily squirmed a bit. 

“Oh hold still, you big sparkling,” Pharma said. He examined the smooth segments of cabling just above Tarn’s hip plating. If there was anything lodged in there, it was too small to be seen-- and therefore too small to have any real impact on the Decepticon’s transformation. Pharma rolled his optics; this was likely another one of Tarn’s games. 

“There’s nothing wrong,” Pharma huffed, “Now off with you.”

“So uncaring for a medic,” Tarn teased, “But there is something amiss. Watch.”

Tarn slid off the table and transformed. To an untrained optic nothing would have appeared out of the ordinary. But Pharma saw it: there was a lag, a definite stiffness, in the way Tarn’s hips shifted into place. 

“You see?” Tarn said smugly, lounging back onto the table as if it were a luxurious berth. Pharma rolled his optics. 

“Well, it’s nothing in the external wiring. I’ll have to check some of your other seams. Could be a slightly dislocated armor plate,” the medic continued. Despite the unpleasantness of his patient, Pharma could never resist a medical curiosity. Pliers in hand once more, he prodded into Tarn’s hip joints, starting near the top and slowly working his lower, carefully examining each bundle of wires for a tangle or obstruction. He pressed his fingers along the edges of the armor plates there to make sure they were properly aligned. His lips pursed in concentration as his processor began to spin through a list of other potential ailments. So far, all of Tarn’s parts fit together as they should. Realizing how close his hands now were to the tank’s interface panel, Pharma wrinkled his nose in distaste. He wouldn’t put it past Tarn to have lodged something in his own wiring just for the sake getting Pharma’s hands where he wanted them. As much as Pharma want to pull away, Tarn’s threats hung over his head like a guillotine. 

“Open your legs further,” Pharma ordered, slapping the inside of Tarn’s thigh. 

“Why Doctor, I thought you liked foreplay,” Tarn drawled as he obeyed, allowing Pharma to touch lower. 

Pharma’s scowl deepened but he didn’t respond. Tarn was his patient, and this was medically necessary. That was all. He’d already checked the wiring near the tank’s spike housing, and now all that was left where the panels covering his valve, and their neighboring armor seams. From what Pharma knew of Tarn’s preferences (far more than he cared to know), the Decepticon almost never used his valve. And right there along the edges of that panel, into the surrounding wiring, Pharma could feel a growing tension. A barely perceptible vibration trembled through Tarn’s armor.

“Interesting,” Pharma said out loud. He tapped against the panel covering that little-used valve. Tarn flinched as if he were in pain. 

“Very interesting,” Pharma repeated. His optics narrowed and the corners of his mouth quirked. 

“You don’t use your valve much, do you?” the medic asked idly.

Tarn lurched upright with a ferocious snarl. “All you need to know about my interfacing preferences will come from the orders I give you in my berth.”

“We are not, however, in your berth at the moment,” Pharma said, “We are in my infirmary. And as your Doctor, I am entitled to know every bit of information that I need to assure accurate diagnosis and treatment.”

As he spoke, Pharma pressed a little more firmly on Tarn’s interface panel. Gradually, the tank began to rock his hips downward into the touch-- no doubt unconsciously.

“So tell me, Tarn. When was the last time you overloaded with your valve?” Pharma said, still pressing on the panel, “You know, regular overloads are critical to maintaining optimal levels of function. Both spike and valve overloads.”

“Recent enough,” Tarn growled. He sounded downright defensive about this particular topic; that was a first for the normally unshakeable Decepticon. Pharma could barely contain a malicious laugh. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Pharma said, now rubbing little circles against Tarn’s panel, “And in my professional opinion, it’s been entirely too long.”

The panel was growing steadily warmer under Pharma’s touch, and the tank’s fingers began to clench and twitch against the table. 

“Did you know that going too long without an overload can lead to a build-up of tension and heat in one’s circuits?” Pharma continued nonchalantly, even as he expertly traced along the hairline seams of the interface panel-- already he could feel moisture starting to gather there. 

Tarn’s only response was a strangled, frustrated whine. It may have been some sort of protest or objection, but Pharma didn’t care.

“And when there’s too much tension built up...” Pharma leaned in very close between Tarn’s legs, under the pretense of examining the afflicted wiring, “...it can interfere with smooth joint movement. Including transformation sequences.” His breath misted across the warm panel. 

“Did you know that, Tarn?” Pharma finished, inhaling deeply. He could almost smell the sweet tang of Tarn’s lubricant, just out of his reach. 

“That is not the problem,” Tarn ground out, stubborn to the last. 

“Self-diagnosing never leads to very good results, you know,” Pharma scolded, “I’m your Doctor. Trust me when I say that an internal examination is necessary.”

“It most certainly is not necessary,” came the angry response. Each syllable licked at Pharma’s spark like a tongue of flame. The medic staggered, clutching his chest, choking down a scream of agony. 

Pharma didn’t know how he stayed on his feet as he rasped, “F-fine... then... Just go... B-but it’s only going to get worse... your transformation... It’ll start... s-seizing up...”

Hesitation. Just as Pharma anticipated. The pain dimmed and he took advantage, “Eventually there’ll be so much excess tension and heat built up in your systems that you’ll barely be able to transform at all, due to seized joints and stiff wiring.”

Tarn was studying him hard, optics like smelter pools through his mask. Pharma held his gaze, cool and steady, and waited. Finally, the Decepticon leaned forward until his mask nearly brushed the tip of Pharma’s nose. 

“You had better be right about this, Autobot. If, after this ‘procedure’, there is so much as a single wire lagging by a nanosecond when I transform... I won’t be back to visit you next month. My team will visit your medical staff instead. Starting with the traitor.” 

Pharma’s spark chilled with dread at that threat; he didn’t particularly like Ambulon, but even a Decepticon wash-out like him deserved better than a house call from the DJD. And then there was First Aid...

“Your transformations will be faster and smoother and ever,” Pharma said, betraying none of the anxiety he felt, “Now just... lay back. Relax.”

After an agonizing moment Tarn pulled away. He settled back on his elbows, observing the medic’s every move with scathing, critical optics. Pharma hoped his sigh of relief wasn’t audible. 

“Now just to get a few things prepared...” the medic said, more to himself than to Tarn. Reaching below the table, he folded two stirrup foot-rests upward and extended them to their maximum length. “Hmm, might still be too short... ah well, you’ll just have to pull your legs up more, I guess... Definitely not a problem.”

He tugged at Tarn’s foot in an attempt to guide it into the stirrup, but the limb was too heavy. He scowled down at his patient. “Help me out here, will you? Feet in stirrups.”

Reluctantly, Tarn positioned himself as ordered. All Pharma could see through the mask was a narrowing and brightening of optics; mistrust, reticence... perhaps a twinge of unspoken excitement. For the first time Pharma wished he could look on Tarn’s actual faceplates, to see every flicker of expression that crossed them. Better to not press his luck now, though, when the Decepticon was already suspicious of him. He could see the tension in Tarn’s frame at being coerced into such a vulnerable, exposed position and steeled himself for the backlash his next command would invariably provoke.

“That’s much better. Now... open your interface panel.”

A scorching growl gusted across Pharma’s spark, like the heat that rippled in the air above a pool of molten metal. Pharma wasn’t deterred; he was far too fascinated by Tarn’s reactions, his obvious discomfort with yielding of control, this vulnerability in the face of the enemy. He would’ve been terrified had it been any other Decepticon, but Pharma knew all he needed to know about Tarn-- and that was that his addiction to transforming compelled him almost as strongly as his dedication to Megatron. 

A click sounded, and Tarn’s spike cover slid aside and Pharma rolled his optics. “The other one. Do you want this little transformation snag fixed or not? I don’t have all day.”

“Remember my promise, Autobot. I’m sure your staff would be most hospitable,” Tarn purred in deadly sotto voce. Another eternal second of hesitation and then, finally...

Click. 

Tarn unlatched the panel covering his valve and eased it aside, little by little. The metal creaked from lack of use. Pharma watched with more than professional fascination as the tender rubber folds beneath were gradually unveiled. They were the same deep purple as the surrounding plating, and twitched visibly at the caress of a cool air current. 

“Very nice...” Pharma breathed, “I’m going to touch you now.”

Before Tarn could argue, Pharma gently parted the outer folds to reveal the tight little opening beneath. The tank’s entire body seized and jerked at the slight contact. Lubricant began squeezing its way out to greet the medic’s fingers, facilitating a smooth slide against the long-neglected sensors there. 

“It has been entirely too long...” Pharma teased, “You don’t let other mechs touch you here, do you?”

There was a dull clunk as Tarn’s head fell back onto the table. He squirmed deliciously, feet pushing against the stirrups as he warred with himself between pulling away and grinding closer. More lubricant seeped out as Pharma gently worked the first knuckle of his index finger inside Tarn. The tank was incredibly tight; a fact made all the more astonishing given the size difference between them. The valve’s walls strained to accommodate even a single finger. 

“You’re abnormally tight. You really should take care of yourself more often,” Pharma said, trying to ignore the stirrings in his own interface array, trying not to think of how delicious it would be to climb on the table and ravish that virgin-like opening. Tarn made the most imploring little sound as Pharma pushed his finger in further, bit by bit, until his knuckles were flush against purple hips. 

“So much tension...” he continued, and a wicked thought formed in his processor. Tarn was fanatically devoted to, some might even say obsessed with, Megatron. It wasn’t such a leap to imagine that that obsession had a sexual component to it as well, so Pharma called his bluff and said, low and husky, “When was the last time Megatron rewarded you?”

“You--! How dare you--! You are not--!” came Tarn’s choked response. He thrashed against the operating table, and its legs squeaked ominously under the strain. 

Pharma grinned wickedly; he was definitely on to something here. Tarn’s previously recalcitrant valve opened to him and quivered around his finger. Pharma felt the increase of its core temperature deep inside, and a surge of wetness trickled out against his knuckles. To have the flawlessly eloquent Decepticon reduced to broken half-sentences was more exciting than Pharma could ever have imagined. 

“This is how he rewards you, isn’t it?” Pharma continued smugly, easing his finger back out and licking his lips at the way Tarn’s valve clenched around him, trying to hold him in, “You save this for him...”

He slid his finger in again, faster and harder this time, and encountered far less resistance. Thinking of Megatron in any sort of sexual context was vaguely repulsive to Pharma, but he could endure it given the present circumstances. The way his words drove Tarn wild was sweet revenge. Already the Decepticon had abandoned his protests. Instead he seemed to have, for once, given up trust in his own vocalizer and attempted stony silence. But silence was foreign to Tarn, the master of words, and soft, throaty groans spilled from his vocalizer all the same. 

“And every day, you hope he’ll summon you again... Tell you what a good mech you are while you kneel before him...” Pharma said as he worked in a second finger. Tarn moaned outright, tossing his head to the side, unable to even look at Pharma. 

He scissored his two fingers apart, stretching Tarn, before working them in and out at a faster pace. “And Megatron will tell you how devoted you are, to save this for him... To keep yourself so nice and tight for his pleasure...”

Tarn had draped his forearm across his faceplates, as if his mask alone weren’t enough to shield his embarrassment and lust. But that didn’t stop his hips snapping eagerly forward to meet Pharma’s fingers. 

Pharma wrinkled his nose a bit as he devised his next taunt; he couldn’t believe he was actually thinking about such things. “Megatron’s nice and thick, isn’t he. I bet he fills you up, stretches your valve to the breaking point...”

Another moan from Tarn, and Pharma’s spark wobbled erratically in response. Was Tarn actually losing control of his vocal ability? That would be a first; even during their previous trysts in Tarn’s berth, the tank had always kept a strong grip on his most powerful weapon. 

“Mmm...” Pharma sighed as he allowed his own interface panel to slide open. Such an action was incredibly unprofessional, of course, but Tarn wasn’t in any condition to notice. Plus, the pressure had built to a point where it was downright distracting, and it was important to maintain focus while performing such delicate procedures. He hissed in pleasure as he stroked up and down the length of his spike before taking a firm grip on the base. His pace in Tarn’s valve had faltered in the process, and the Decepticon actually whimpered. Reminded of the task at hand, Pharma rammed a third finger in without any preparation. Maybe it was too rough, maybe it hurt... but if Tarn’s reaction was any indication, he actually enjoyed the harsh treatment. 

Pharma’s optics glowed icy bright blue, almost white, as he watched the opening of Tarn’s valve stretching around his fingers, hungrily swallowing them, clenching and rippling in a way that made his spike throb in his fist. Its walls were so soft and warm and delicate-- such a striking contrast to the jagged, rough power that defined every other part of Tarn’s frame. Lubricant gushed freely now, and dribbled down to pool on the table under his aft. Pharma had increased his tempo accordingly, now ramming into the tank hard enough that metal clanged every time the heel of his palm slapped against Tarn’s hips. 

Pharma moaned brokenly as he accelerated the movement of his other hand, pumping his spike in time with his thrusts into Tarn. “Megatron would be rough with you, wouldn’t he? Make you take it all, until you begged...”

Cooling fans roared and Tarn’s broad thighs began to tremble. Pharma twisted his hand so his thumb could rake over the exterior sensor cluster at the top of Tarn’s valve with every thrust. That elicited a melodious sound of pleasure, and the Decepticon began to claw desperately at the table. If Pharma wasn’t mistaken, Tarn was close. Very close. He stalled his own pleasure to focus on his patient. While Pharma had seen Tarn overload before, this was different. This felt like a twisted intimacy, a reckless, sensuous claiming of enemy territory.

“And even then, he wouldn’t let you come so easily... oh no. He’d make you ask him for it. Nicely. Beg, even. Is that right, Tarn?” Pharma purred, slowing the movements of his hand to a torturous tease. No response from Tarn. Pharma pursed his lips and withdrew entirely.

“Finish the procedure,” Tarn snarled, though he sounded more desperate than angry.

“Is that what you’d say to Megatron? I don’t imagine it is,” Pharma said, just barely brushing the pad of his thumb over the engorged anterior sensor node. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, teasing Tarn like this. 

“That is none of your concern--” Tarn began, but Pharma cut him off by barely pushing one fingertip back inside, just enough to ignite the sensors around the entrance. Pharma smirked and squeezed the engorged tip of his spike. He was painfully aroused, but had every intention of watching Tarn climax first. 

“Perhaps, but it is yours,” the medic said, “If you want your transformation fixed, that is.”

Tarn tilted his helm up to stare murderously at Pharma-- who chose that exact moment to ram three fingers all the way back in. Whatever threat Tarn had in mind dissolved in a hitching of ventilation and a quiet moan. 

“And you want that, don’t you? You want release?” Pharma said. He crooked his fingers inside Tarn, expertly pinpointing another cluster of sensors embedded in the valve’s lining. 

“A-ahh yes...” that mellifluous voice washed over Pharma’s audios. Even without the modification, Tarn’s vocalizer produced the most beautifully erotic sounds. 

“Ye-es?” Pharma prolonged the torment, now fucking Tarn with slow, hard movements of his hand, hitting all the right spots but not quite fast enough to finish him. 

“Finish it!” Tarn cried, daggers of indistinct pain-pleasure lighting up Pharma’s sensors as the vocalizer modes oscillated beyond their owner’s control, “Doctor, I need it!”

Pharma’s spike jumped in his grip and he nearly came at the sound of that desperate, pleasure-laden cry. His gaze was riveted to Tarn’s soaked valve, mesmerized by the way it glistened. “So expressive. Megatron must like that... Like hearing how much you need your valve filled up and claimed...”

“Ohh Lord Megatron... yes! Yes!” Tarn cried out in ecstasy. His back arched up off table in a graceful, improbable curve as his hips jerked wildly against Pharma’s fingers, trying to take them even deeper. The tank’s valve clamped down so tightly it was nearly painful, showering splatters of warm lubricant all over Pharma’s hand. Pharma fucked Tarn all the way through it, even as his own overload crept dangerously close. Hearing the Decepticon’s unfettered, velvety sounds of pleasure, like a thousand warm touches all over his frame, was too much. Thick droplets of lubricant oozed from the tip of his spike as Pharma stroked himself faster. He focused intently on the feeling of Tarn’s valve, the wetness and heat and softness, still spasming around him, so needy... Pharma bit his lip and grunted as he came hard all over his own abdominal plating, streaking opaque fluid across blue paint. 

Pharma’s optical feed must have reset during his overload, because when his vision re-focused Tarn was watching him again. The glow of his optics was softer, though, and there was a hazy quality to his voice as he said pointedly, “Why Doctor-- I had no idea that self-service was a part of this procedure. Do all your patients receive such special treatment?”

He stared pointedly at Pharma’s messy plating, and spike still incriminatingly in hand. Tarn was insufferable; by now the medic should’ve known better than to think an overload would grant him any reprieve. In lieu of a verbal response, Pharma threw a rag directly at Tarn’s face. 

“Clean up and clear out,” Pharma said, exasperation returning as the pleasure of his overload faded. Tarn plucked the rag off his mask and wiped the the largest rivulets of lubricant from his inner thighs. 

“What, no pillow talk? You wound me, Doctor,” Tarn chuckled. With a languid stretch, he rose from the table to loom over Pharma. He leaned down and pressed his mask to the side of Pharma’s helm. “Perhaps next month, when you pay another visit to my berth.”

Pharma did his best to ignore the hot shiver those words jolted down his backstrut, and instead busily scrubbed at his soiled abdominal plating with a second, cleaner rag. 

“Try to contain your enthusiasm, Doctor. I know you’ll be eager enough when the time comes,” Tarn said. He draped the lubricant-smeared rag cloth Pharma’s shoulder on his way out. The medic immediately recoiled and shook it loose onto the floor. 

In the doorway, Tarn transformed and said, “Much better. I know I can count on you to take care of me, Pharma. I’ll call off my team-- for now, I suppose.”

Tarn sounded disappointed at that last bit, and Pharma shuddered at the implication that the other four DJD members were in fact already here somewhere. 

“Yes. You do that,” Pharma said, trying to sound authoritative again. 

Tarn transformed back to robot mode long enough to offer a bow. “And I will, of course, refer them to your expert services should they have any medical needs that arise.”

“That’s not part of the deal either!” Pharma shouted, the mess of fluids on and around him temporarily forgotten.

“It is now,” Tarn said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, “Until next month, dear Doctor.”


End file.
